It Could All Be So Simple
by atlasundone
Summary: Based on the song Ex-Factor by Lauryn Hill.  Loosely follows the storyline from "Sexy" to "Rumours".   Santana has confessed her feelings and been rebuffed; then Brittany is single but Santana won't come out . Can Santana and Brittany make it work? 1shot


_It could all be so simple, but you'd rather make it hard  
><em>

_I_

_Is this just a silly game? That forces you to act this way  
>Forces you to scream my name, then pretend that you can't stay<em>

Maybe Brittany wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but she was hardly the dolt people took her for. She was smart enough to know, for instance, that when Santana told her sex between two girls wasn't cheating it wasn't true. But she let Santana think that she bought into it (as she often did), partly because that was the dynamic of their relationship and partly because she was afraid if she told Santana it felt real to her, Santana would stop.

Not to mention that her feigned ignorance also allowed her to distance herself from the possibility that what she was doing to Artie was hurtful and wrong.

So yes, it was easier this way. Easier to pretend that she was a little less perceptive, a little more naïve. Easier to pretend that her thoughts and feelings needed to be prescribed to her by someone else before she could own them.

Sometimes she even managed to convince herself that she didn't know better. Like in the middle of the night, when she'd awaken to find Santana's arm snaking across her pale belly. Like the gasp that escaped Santana's lips when she reached inside Brittany's panties to find that she was wet and it was all for her. Like when their eyes would meet, Brittany's fingers working inside of her, and the blonde could see something blooming, hidden, behind Santana's irises. Something like love.

But when it was over, and Santana told her with a practiced nonchalance that there were no feelings attached, Brittany would nod and agree and ignore the sinking feeling in her gut.

Sometimes it was hard to ignore what she knew to be true.

So maybe it really was all a game to Santana; maybe Brittany was nothing more than a warm body. And maybe when Brittany's name was ripped from Santana's throat in the night, it was only the utterance of a friend.

_II_

_Tell me who I have to be to get some reciprocity  
>See, no one loves you more than me, and no ever will<em>

Santana Lopez wasn't a lesbian until she was.

The realization came upon her all at once, pressing down on her like a lead weight that couldn't be removed until she acknowledged its presence. And she was sure it wasn't possible to just wake up gay one morning; she acknowledged that the seed of her sexuality had been growing for some time. But now that she had embraced it, it felt bigger than her. Stronger than her. And it scared her.

She felt different in her skin. She felt the way she imaged a corpse must feel, if they _could_ feel, when their blood is drained and replaced with embalming fluid. She felt the gayness inexplicably changing her as it ran through her veins as if through a twisty straw.

But she was in high school after all – an environment which had convinced her that anything that set her apart from her peers made her somehow inhuman. She did not, could not, fathom that a gay Santana Lopez was _still_ Santana Lopez.

And perhaps this is why she refused to talk feelings with Brittany, even though she loved her. Why she felt the need to convince the blonde that their intimacy wasn't truly intimacy, and that their sex wasn't _really_ sex, even though she couldn't live without it. Why she convinced her best friend that nothing they did meant anything, even though Brittany's touches meant _everything_.

The sex was the easy part. Even easier the first time, when Santana masked her true intentions with alcohol. They had just come home from a party at Puck's house, both a few sheets to the wind, and Santana veiled herself with the knowledge that this would be simple to explain the next morning. Maybe even forgotten by the next morning. If she's honest with herself, Santana might even admit that this was her reason for getting drunk in the first place.

She had eyes, after all. She can't remember when it was that she began really _looking_ at Brittany, yearning for Brittany. But she can recall a countless string of nights salvaged only by her own fingers stroking over her heat as she did to herself what she couldn't do to Brittany.

And now, head foggy with alcohol and Brittany giggling drunkenly beside her, Santana took her shot. She was up and under that Cheerios skirt in no time, her body nearly exploding at the first touch of wetness.

She had no idea what this meant.

So she told herself it didn't mean anything.

And later, after they'd blamed it on the alcohol, Santana found a new excuse for what they kept doing – and they did keep doing it, and they couldn't stop.

Only every once in a while Santana would find herself on the edge of saying something epic, something that could change everything. Brittany's long, pale fingers doing something unspeakable to her clit, she'd find her eyes, and there on the brink of orgasm Santana felt more honest than she'd ever felt. Instead she'd squeeze her eyes shut until she saw light spots instead of Brittany's loving gaze, and she'd swallow the words she dare not say.

Because the feelings were the hard part.

So it should come as no surprise that when Santana worked up the courage to confess her feelings, it was _a big deal. _And no surprise that her heart was absolutely shattered when Brittany chose Artie.

And when she refused Brittany's comfort by slapping her arms away, it wasn't only because her pride was hurt, but because she no longer understood what it meant to be touched by Brittany.

The only thing she knew for sure was that there was _no one_ who loved Brittany like she did. No one.

_III_

_I keep letting you back in – How can I explain myself?  
>As painful as this thing has been, I just can't be with no one else<em>

In the eyes of Brittany Pierce, Santana could do no wrong. Santana, who had protected Brittany her entire life, who had patiently explained the things she did not understand, who had cried when Brittany cried and laughed when Brittany laughed. There was no one else like Santana in the whole world.

And Brittany loved her. Loved her if she was gay, loved her if she was straight.

And Brittany was _in love_ with her. That was just an added bonus.

And Brittany had left Artie to be with her. Yet somehow, they weren't together.

They weren't together because Santana had managed to retreat halfway back inside the closet.

Not everyone was like Brittany, ready to express her sexual identity at the drop of a hat. But now that she knew Santana loved her, she wanted to scream it from the rooftops. And the fact that Santana didn't… Well. That hurt.

She didn't want Santana to come out _solely_ because it otherwise made Brittany feel that Santana was ashamed of her. No, that was only part of it. She wanted Santana to come out because this, like every other part of the Latina, was beautiful.

Brittany had been in love with Santana for over five years, ever since that time when they were twelve and kissed on a dare. They had laughed about it afterwards with the rest of their friends, but later that night Brittany crept into the bathroom while Santana slept to touch her lips, as if doing so might keep the kiss there longer. There was no way she was going to let a chance to be with this woman get away.

It cut like a knife when Santana stood her up for her web-series. She had broken up with Artie to be with a woman who now refused to be with her – and Brittany refused to be kept a secret.

Brittany forgave her, as she always did. Forgave her even though she had humiliated her, leaving her to interview her _cat_. Forgave her even though she had rejected her. Forgave her, even though a small part of her sensed that maybe Santana only wanted her when she couldn't have her.

Of course she would forgive her. There was no other option. So when Santana apologized quietly at their lockers the next morning, Brittany stuffed her feelings down and smiled, letting Santana atone the way she wanted.

It was harder to forgive her when it happened again. She looked at Santana across the hallway, a microphone in her face, pleading with her eyes for the Latina to close her mouth before she went and said something unforgiveable.

But Santana looked right at her as she attested to being soul mates with Karofsky. Letting the whole school know in no uncertain terms that she loved him, even as she saw her words crushing and crumbling the woman she _really_ loved.

It wasn't so easy for Brittany to force a smile. She had ignored Santana's texts that night, even when they became desperate pleas for Brittany to talk to her. She curled up in her bed in the fetal position, clutching her stomach as though she had been punched and maybe she had.

It was close to 11 that night when Santana crept into Brittany's room. Brittany didn't need to look up to know who it was. Santana crawled into bed behind her, leaving a few inches between their bodies.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice hoarse from what Brittany knew to be crying. She reached a hand out to touch Brittany's shoulder but it was immediately shaken off.

"I'm sorry," Santana tried again, propping herself up on her elbow so that she could look down at the side of Brittany's face, also streaked with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered, placing her face into the crook of the blonde's neck.

Brittany wormed away, turning to push Santana away from her. "Don't touch me," she said, her voice surprisingly laced with a venom that Santana wasn't used to hearing.

And in her head, Santana knew that Brittany meant what she said – that she didn't want to be touched by her at that moment. But in her heart, Santana couldn't help thinking that she was going to lose Brittany if she didn't make her see that Santana loved her.

Brittany was on her back now, looking up at Santana with something akin to rage simmering inside her. Santana's mascara was smudged beneath her eyes, she looked terrible, guilty, but Brittany wouldn't allow herself to take pity on her.

"Please stop pretending that you care about me," Brittany said, driving the nail in.

"Brittany, _please_," Santana cried, reaching out yet again to place a hand on Brittany. The blonde slapped her away but Santana kept trying, only becoming more frantic as Brittany struggled beneath her. The Latina climbed on top of her, straddling her, trying to pin Brittany's arms down as she continued thrashing against her.

"Get the fuck off of me!" Brittany hissed, careful not to wake her parents. She was crying harder now, mostly out of frustration for not being stronger than Santana. She was pressing down hard onto Brittany, her hands gripping the pale wrists so tight it'd surely leave a bruise. Each time Brittany tried to lift herself up she was quickly pushed back down. She was writhing, beginning to sweat.

"Please, Brittany, I love you. I _love_ you," she chanted. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it. I'm so sorry."

Brittany finally managed to get an arm free and, hearing Santana's latest words, slapped her hard across the face. The sound of the sting was deafening, both women stilling their movements as Santana brought a hand to her face, cupping the red skin. She looked down at Brittany, but her eyes surprisingly showed no anger.

Brittany looked horrified. She had never raised a hand to Santana, not even jokingly. She sat up, Santana still straddling her, and tried to pry the Latina's hand from her face.

"Let me see it," she said, uncovering the chapped, red skin. "Santana, I'm…." she started, at a loss for words. "I'm sor—"

"Hit me again," Santana said, cutting her off. She tilted her head to the side, exposing her cheek once more. Brittany squinted her eyebrows in confusion and disbelief.

"Do it. I deserve it, Brittany, slap me."

"God, Santana, no! I'm not going to hit you again! I'll never hit you again."

Santana reached down to squeeze Brittany's wrist, bringing it up near her face. Brittany fought against her as she tried to use both their hands to strike herself.

"Stop! Stop it! I'm not going to hit you" Brittany cried, still struggling for her arm back. "I'm not going to hit you," she repeated, over and over and over until finally Santana went limp, a sob escaping her throat.

Brittany guided the Latina's head down onto her shoulder, her t-shirt soaked through with Santana's tears as she cried into her. Brittany held on to the back of Santana's damp neck, her other arm wrapped tightly around her back.

"I'm sorry," Santana whimpered. "I'm such a coward. I'm sorry."

"Me too," Brittany soothed, kissing her temple. "Me too."

When Santana's sobs had turned to hiccups, Brittany guided her towards the head of the bed, tucking her tired body under the covers.

That night, Santana didn't want to be spooned. She turned instead to face Brittany, nestling her face into the hollow beneath her neck and holding her tightly until morning.

_IV_

_I know what we have to do – You let go and I'll let go, too  
>Cause no one's hurt me more than you, and no one ever will<em>

They had both agreed that it wasn't going to work; that it wasn't the right time for them.

But that didn't keep Brittany from crying into her pillow at night, matting Lord Tubbington's fur as she nestled her face into his soft underbelly.

And it didn't keep Santana from moving around in some sort of walking-coma, oblivious to any and everything going on around her.

They said they'd still be friends; of course they did. A consolation for the fact that, even though they loved each other, they just couldn't seem to get it right.

"It's not that I don't want people to know about _you_," Santana had tried to explain. "It's that I don't want people to know about _me_"_. _

"I don't want to hide this, Santana! I don't want to have to catch myself from touching you in public, or worry that what I'm doing isn't "friendly" enough. I don't want to lie about being in a relationship. And I don't want other people treating us like we're single if we're _not_," Brittany responded.

When Santana threw her hands up, as if declaring that this argument was going nowhere, Brittany pressed on.

"I've never felt happier than I did when I realized exactly who I am, and exactly what I want: You. And I don't want to stuff that feeling back down."

But Santana wasn't ready to bring that feeling _up. _She was scared to keep it anywhere but hidden. And there was no happy medium.

So even though they decided that it wasn't in the cards for them, it was still hard as hell to accept that.

So hard, that Brittany didn't quite feel like dancing anymore.

So hard that Santana had slipped into Brittany's bedroom, on more than occasion, to lie beside her. Brittany would look at her groggily, ask what she was doing, tell her that this wasn't part of the plan. Tell her that she was breaking the rules.

But knowing that it was wrong didn't keep Brittany from seeking out her soft skin under the covers, or covering Santana's lips with her own. Just the taste of her lips after all that time evoked a moan from Brittany's throat.

And maybe Brittany fisted Santana's ponytail a little harder than usual when she guided her own nipple into the Latina's warm mouth. And maybe Santana held her just a little too tight as they ground their hips together, pelvis to pelvis. And maybe Brittany made Santana wait just a little bit longer before coming in her mouth, dragging it out until Santana's nails made little half-moons on the skin of her shoulders.

Maybe they both thought this was the last time.

And yet.

It wasn't the last time. It was never the last time.

"What are we doing?" Brittany asked, halting the progress of Santana's hand up her skirt. They were sitting in the Latina's car in Brittany's driveway, having just come from a party at Lauren Zizes' house.

They had mindfully kept their distance from each other all night, Santana's eyes following Brittany discretely. Watched her as she danced herself into a sweat with the rest of the Glee kids. Watched her as she talked and joked and laughed with them; as she playfully held on to the back of Artie's wheelchair as she pushed them across the room.

It turned Santana's stomach.

Any other day and she'd be right there with Brittany. But now everything had changed.

She wasn't having fun anymore.

"We're kissing," Santana answered, reaching for the hem of Brittany's skirt again.

"No, Santana stop," she said, extracting her body from the Latina's grasp. "I can't keep doing this with you. It's just not fair to me," she said sadly.

"Fair?" Santana scoffed, an edge in her voice. "None of this is fucking fair."

"Really? Because you seem to be getting a pretty good deal. I told you I couldn't be with you unless you were ready to stop hiding it, and yet here we are – still secretly hooking up. So you're getting exactly what you want."

"You seem to be enjoying yourself just fine," Santana bit back.

"Of course I'm enjoying it, Santana! I _love _you. I _want_to be kissing you. But more than that, I want you to _want_ to be kissing _me. _I want you to want to kiss me so much that you don't care who sees! But you do care. So we have to stop."

"I don't want to stop," Santana said quietly, pleadingly.

"It's hurting me too much," Brittany answered, wiping a tear from her cheek. "If you don't want to be with me, then you have to let me move on."

Santana looked away, tears rapidly forming in her eyes. And as Brittany let herself out of the car and into the house, Santana shattered completely.

_X_

_It could all be so simple, but you'd rather make it hard_

"You're making this much harder than it needs to be, you know," Quinn had said, throwing her books onto the desk and sliding into her seat beside Santana. "It's really very simple."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Fabray?"

"Look, I know we're not the best of friends anymore but I like to think that I still know you. And for the last week Brittany's been walking around looking like someone killed her cat and you've been even bitchier than your normal self, if that's possible."

"Well I'm sorry we're not meeting your standards of happiness," Santana deflected.

"Santana, I know what's going on."

"You don't know anything," she snapped.

"I know that you love her, and that she loves you—"

"Would you lower your voice?" Santana hissed, her eyes darting around the room to make sure no one was listening.

"And I know that you're not together," Quinn went on, quietly. "Why is that?"

Santana was quiet for a moment and then reluctantly answered.

"Because Brittany wants me to come out, and I just can't. I won't."

"Even though that means losing her?"

Santana didn't respond, could only look down at her lap to distract herself from the moisture pushing against her tear ducts, trying desperately to escape.

"Brittany would never ask you to do something like this if she thought that it wouldn't be okay. You have _friends, _Santana. People that are going to accept you no matter what."

"Yeah, and I have enemies. People that are going to harass me; make fun of me."

"God, who cares!" Quinn huffed. "As long as you have each other, who cares if sometimes you get made fun of? Don't you think I'd give _anything_ to have someone to face the world with?"

The Latina set her jaw, saying nothing.

"This could be so easy if you would just open your fucking eyes."

That afternoon, Santana walked into the choir room and took a seat a few rows behind where Brittany was sitting with Artie. A frown played at her mouth at the thought of Brittany moving on – even more so at the thought of her moving on with _Artie_.

Sure, Brittany had asked Santana to let her go. To let her try to be happy. But when Santana considered _really _losing Brittany, she felt something like a strand of ivy wrapping itself tightly around her rib cage; strangling her. Her breath caught in her throat, never making it past her windpipe, at the idea of a future that didn't involve the blonde.

So when Mr. Shuester arrived for glee club just a few moments later, asking who wanted to go first this week, Santana rose to her feet before Rachel Berry's arm could spring up.

"Santana," Mr. Shue said, surprised at the Latina's unusual iniative. "Great," he said, taking a seat in the front row as Santana made her way to the front of the classroom.

"I actually don't have anything to sing," Santana said, the rest of the glee club looking at her in confusion. Mr. Shuester started to open his mouth, evidently about to replace Santana with someone who had prepared something musical, as was the point. But Santana cut him off.

"But I do have something to say," she continued, determinedly. She looked at the ground for a moment, biting her lip as she searched for the strength to push the next few words past her trachea. She looked up at the front row to find Brittany looking at her with as much curiosity as everyone else.

"I'm in love with Brittany," Santana said, the words tumbling from her mouth with more confidence than she expected to have in this moment. Her heart was beating too loud for her to focus on the fact that Sam's huge mouth was hanging open. Or the way Mercedes and Tina were looking at each other knowingly, as if they'd discussed this possibility before. Or even the unfathomable height of Mr. Shue's raised eyebrows.

For a moment she even missed the tears forming in the blonde's eyes.

"I love her," she repeated, "and I don't who care knows anymore. She is… _way _too special to keep hidden away like some secret that I'm ashamed of. And I would be proud to be the person she chooses to be with."

She turned then to look directly at Brittany, shrugging her shoulders in a silent form of communication with the blonde.

"I don't know if you can forgive me for the way I've treated you. And I can't promise you that I'm not going to freak out sometimes. But I want to be with you," Santana said, her voice strong and unwavering. "And not just when it's us two, and not just here in glee club. I want to be with you everywhere in the world. I love you, and if you could just bear with me I promise I'll make you so hap—"

Her speech was cut short by a pair of lips being pressed forcefully to hers, strong arms wrapping themselves around her back, grounding her.

And as her own hands found their place on Brittany's cheeks, she forgot to care that they had an audience. She forgot to listen for the snickering of her classmates, or seek out the sight of an impending slushie.

Because in that moment, nothing existed but the two of them; surrounding each other with love.


End file.
